Don't Dream It's Over
by Demaris Jones
Summary: After Dean goes to Hell, Sammy pretty much goes to hell too - but with a plan that takes him on some strange detours before the final conflict. All chapters posted! Please review! Warning: Slash, gore.
1. Chapter 1  The Departed

Don't Dream It's Over

Summary: This story is about what happens to Sammy after Dean goes to Hell at the end of Season 3. I know that's way back, series-wise, but I've been working my way backward and got caught up here. It takes place about three days after the events of "No Rest for the Wicked", although Sammy's memory is of six months before that event.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or anything else connected with Kripke & Co.'s "Supernatural". Like the Talking Heads song says – this fiction is "never for money, always for love…" I don't own "Don't Dream It's Over" either, just love it.

"_There is freedom within_

_There is freedom without_

_Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup..."_

He reached out to change the station but I beat him to it, knocking his hand away from the knob. (_When did I get faster than him!)_

"C'mon Dean, don't change it."

He glanced at me, one eyebrow quirked up, lip curling.

"I like this song – just – c'mon…"

" Y'know _Samantha,_ I really worry about what's gonna become of you after I'm gone.

I mean _Tears for Fears? Really?"_

"It's _Crowded House_ actually – but good try Dean! The two bands do share a certain

stylistic and vocal niche."

"Okay, now you're just being super-annoying, Bro."

Yeah, I was.

"I listened to the radio a lot as a kid, Dean. _A lot_. It was – company, y'know? And I liked the oldie station too, just like you. Just – different oldies, I guess."

"_Ya think?"_

"_There's a battle ahead;_

_many battles are lost._

_But you'll never see the end of the road_

_while you're traveling with__ me."_

Although I had let it pass, I hated it when he referred to the end of his life so casually – like you'd talk about your next vacation in Hawaii or something. My heart always lurched a little, and I think now he did it so I would gradually get used to the idea, but it wasn't working. Maybe he sensed I was ticked though, because he said "Well, maybe it's not the worst song I've ever heard."

"Wow, coming from you that's practically an endorsement", I said. "This song - reminds me of us a little."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wished I could swallow them back in, knowing they would prompt a sneer or a punch in the shoulder.

"Dude, could you _be more gay_?"

Dean always reacted that way when I came off "all girly" – which is to say, if I expressed any emotion other than anger, curiosity, or determination. I understood though and it didn't bother me, really. Dad had trained Dean practically from birth to be the good soldier - to hide his feelings, to never show weakness, or fear, or doubt. I knew that underneath the easy smile and the snarky remarks and the "fuck it" attitude that he felt all those things, and more. But he hid it - from me and even from himself, I think.

"Well, that's what we're doing, isn't it? Trying to catch the deluge in a paper cup? I mean, it was one thing when we were just chasing werewolves and vampires, and ghouls and revenants and all the other assorted uglies out there. But now we're battling the collected minions of Hell – a fucking army of 'em. And with what – a bewitched knife and an old six-shooter!"

"Yeah, but what a six-shooter!" Dean shot back, flashing a grin. "The Gun That Won the West. We're like the Lone Ranger and Tonto."

"I guess I don't have to ask you who's Tonto", I said.

"You got that right, Keemo Sabe!"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Dean could always make me, even when I didn't want to. When we were kids, if I was sick or in pain, or lonely and hurting Dean would always find a way to distract or divert me away from thinking about myself. He always had time for me even if no one else did. He talked to me, kept my childish secrets and soothed my fears. In a world where nothing was certain, Dean was the star I steered by.

He had always, always put himself between me and anything that might hurt me. And not because Dad told him he had to, like it was his assignment in life, but because he loved me more than anything or anyone. Because I was his – the only thing in the world that really was. His whole life he had defended me, protected me, loved me. It was why he'd be gone in another six months.

Of course, sitting beside him that warm afternoon, tearing down the road in the Impala with the windows rolled down and the sun slanting in, and the music on and him smiling, I didn't believe for a minute that Dean was going to die. We were strong and smart - we were the fucking Winchester Brothers for Chrissake! We would find a way to break the deal, to cheat death like we always did – to beat the Devil at his own game.

Those were all the things I thought that day.

The song ended; I glanced over at Dean. He was completely relaxed – slouched back against

the seat driving one-handed – the other draped along the edge of the door, fingers unconsciously caressing the steel skin of his beloved ride. The sun glinted in his hair capturing little sparks of gold. He was looking straight ahead, looking down the road with that 1,000-yard stare of his, and the smallest of smiles played around his lips. He sensed my gaze I guess, 'cause he turned and looked at me, still with that same small smile.

It was so brief – God! _So _brief – an instant, only. But I looked at his face, into his eyes – and they were smiling too – calm and deep like two still, green pools, and so full of tenderness and love that I felt it in my chest like something physical. He turned back to the road an instant later.

"You hungry, Sammy?"

"I could eat."

That was six months ago.

I had a brother. His name was Dean.

It's been three days since he died. Three days since I watched him scream while invisible hellhounds tore off his flesh, bit and gouged and violated him - and dragged his soul down into Hell.

Every night since then I've spent sitting here in the Impala with the radio turned on, listening to the music and knocking back a few beers. It's the only place on this planet that I can bear to be right now since I can't sleep anymore. See, when I try to sleep all I can see is his body being torn, and his eyes begging me to make it stop; all I can hear are his screams, and my own ragged voice begging that bitch to _PLEASE PLEASE STOP_, and those cursed fucking hounds snapping and snarling.

So I sit here every night because this is the place I feel him most. We practically lived in this car, after all. It still smells of him – a mixture of cordite, leather, sunlight on grass, and the mysterious spice of his own essence.

My brother's love for me was simple; it nourished me, taught me, strengthened me, protected me. He was the other half of me – the best part. Dean was full of light, and despite his skepticism of all things religious, he was full of faith and a belief that humankind was worth fighting for. He made me believe it too for awhile.

My love for my brother is …complex. And I have spent a good part of these last three nights thinking about it, coming to terms with it. I already understand that it was the light in Dean that balanced…whatever… lives in me. His love – without condition or limit – fed whatever virtue I possessed and kept the seductive pull of my demonic nature at bay.

I look out the night-darkened side window and see his face reflected there – the soft curve of his upper lip, curled up at the corner in that wry half-smile, the sun-burnished skin with its dusting of tiny freckles, the bottomless green eyes. My fingertips brush across the image and it dissolves.

I had thought that I had no tears left in me, but now fresh tears stream from my eyes; I feel as if I'm crying blood. I am sobbing like a child – my whole frame wracked and shaking. The Colt loaded with a single silver bullet sits in my lap as it has for the past three nights. I would stick it in my mouth and pull the trigger without hesitation - (my suicide guaranteeing my entry to Hell) if I could be sure I would see Dean there – if I could spend Eternity suffering by his side. But I knew it didn't work that way, because although Hell is full to bursting with the damned, each soul is eternally and absolutely – ALONE.

So I cry until pure physical exhaustion closes my eyes and my head drops back on that seat that smells of Dean. It's the middle of the night – just the beginning of an eternity of nights that stretches out ahead of me like a road paved with razors.

The familiar opening chords pulled me back to that beautiful day we spent a lifetime ago, and I suppose subconsciously I've been listening for this song. But it's never come on until now. As it plays I sing softly along…

"_Hey, now, hey now_

_Don't dream it's over_

_Hey now, hey now_

_When the world comes in _

_They come - they come to build a wall between us _

_We know they won't win._

_Don't let them win…" _

So that's it comrades – my first _Supernatural_ fic. I hope you enjoyed it. I am considering making this Chapter 1 of a longer story that will have an actual PLOT. Reviews will be welcomed and greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2  Renaissance

Don't Dream It's Over - Chapter 2 – Renaissance

So here's the deal: I posted _Don't Dream It's Over_ as a one-shot, complete. But as sometimes occurs, the story wasn't quite done telling itself. So there are now four more chapters. I hope everyone who read _Don't Dream…_ will take note of the continuation and take another look. I was gonna just post this as a new story, but I figured most people wouldn't go back and read the first one, and the story would lack context.

I promise there won't big a big time lag between chapters. Reviews are champagne and chocolate.

T**his chapter picks up about two weeks after the events of "Don't Dream It's Over"**

Ω Ω Ω Ω

Sam thought he would never stop crying but eventually, he did. But by then it was as if every tender feeling, every kind thought or generous impulse he had ever possessed had flowed out of him on that river of tears. Sam thought, hell, maybe he's dealing with Dr. Fucking Phil's "stages of grief", but all out of order. Because he'd skipped right over denial – Shit, no point in _that _was there? Not when he had seen, heard, _lived_ it happening. Denial just wasn't an option here. Bargaining? – Been there, done that. No takers. But the ANGER - now that feels right. He can feel it rearing inside him like a hydra, threading through every vein, permeating every cell, replacing all that he had been with a black poisonous nothingness.

He needs nothing and no one. (Well - of course that's not quite true, he thinks. He is missing the other half of his soul, after all.) And he needs to kill things. But – hey – that makes him just another amputee soldier in the Army of Darkness, no?

Sam's anger informs and infuses his every thought, act, breath, word. With each heartbeat he feels it grow stronger, feeding itself on itself while it consumes every unnecessary part of the person who was Sam Winchester. Nothing now remains of that worthless and ineffectual cowardwho let his brother die – and good riddance to him. Sam will forge of his vestiges a weapon that will end the one who wrought this maelstrom of grief and damnation – the bitch Lilith.

It began this way: When he finally was able to think about _that night_ without immediately wanting to tear out his eyes, he replayed every second in his head – letting it pass across his vision like he was watching someone's old home movie, (although he did have to just fast forward past the _tearing and ripping_ portion.) But he slowed the reel down after that, examining each frame minutely beginning with when Lilith tried to blast him into oblivion. He could tell from her face when the smoke from her demon nuke had cleared that she'd fully expected to see nothing more than a greasy blot on the wall where he'd been; when Sam had actually stood and walked toward her holding Ruby's knife she'd been stunned. At the time he'd been too crazed for it to register, but as he reflected now he realized he had seen something else in Lilith's eyes just before she had thrown back her head and jetted herself out of Ruby's borrowed body. He had seen _fear_.

This knowledge forms the last component of Sam's transformation. His anger, honed to keenness, is now wedded inextricably to _Purpose_. He will destroy Lilith, but before he does he will find a way to make her free Dean and bring him back.

Sam realized there were things he would need to fulfill his Purpose. Money. Equipment - like a new computer. Better weapons. Those he would build himself; and he would continue to hunt – anything and everything but _especially_ DEMONS.

The next few weeks pass swiftly. Sam scours newsfeeds, weather reports and the loose net of hunter communications to track demons and werecreatures. With each succeeding day, his senses sharpen. He is all predator now, dormant and remote except when hunting. He barely sleeps, but it is enough. He hunts day and night.

He is aware of subtle but profound changes that have been occurring inside him since _that night._ He understands that these changes had already begun months before Dean…. left, but Dean had been a buffer between Sam and danger, and that included the dangerous parts of Sam. Now there is nothing standing between Sam and his darkness, and that's just fine with him.

Perhaps whatever Lilith zapped him with had something to do with the acceleration of these changes, because a few weeks after that night of madness and loss Sam had sought out a mid-level demon at a crossroads outside of Bent Fork, Idaho seeking, on the pretense of cutting a deal for Dean's return, to catch some whiff of Lilith. The demon, radiating fear, had refused to deal and had attacked Sam instead. Sam had killed him without laying so much as a finger on him - without exorcism, without the Colt or Ruby's knife or a Devil's trap. As the demon rushed him, moving almost too fast to be seen, he merely extended his arm, closed his fist, and the creature dropped as if poleaxed, imploding messily. Sam was mildly surprised at the ease of this; the power was simply _there _and he used it. What was more surprising was that immediately the life force quitted its former receptacle - the black smoke roiling and congealing on the ground - a faint greenish scintillation separated itself from the remains, coruscated around Sam, and was absorbed into him almost instantly. At the moment of this occurrence, Sam understood that this was life energy – that which can be neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. It is neither evil nor good - it is now HIS energy, and like a nuclear reactor produces as much power as its users require, the demon energy feeds Sam's growing power.

He explores this power, testing its limits and his, and the purposes to which it can be turned. Two weeks and twenty dead demons later he finds he can move at that same speed that makes demons appear to teleport. He can blow them out of a host and back to Hell or kill them outright with minimal effort. He can sense demon presence, sniffing it out among the millions of psychic spoor trails produced by sentient beings. He can immobilize them mentally and physically with a thought, pinning them like bugs on a board. He can even possess _them_ after a fashion – see through their eyes, control their limbs – make them _do things_.

He deals with the implications of his new powers the same way he deals with everything else: methodically, dispassionately, with singularity of purpose. How will it get him closer to Lilith. How can he use it to make her bring Dean back.

Of less interest are the philosophical and moral aspects of his new situation. Specifically: Exactly _what_ kind of freak does this make him? What will he be by the end of this evolution? Seems like it's always been the same questions; same no-answers.

Besides, there are more immediate concerns. He is running out of money. He will get some…


	3. Chapter 3  Sammy Goes AWhoring

_Don't Dream It's Over – Chapter 3 – Sammy Goes a-Whoring_

Money isn't hard to come by when you are prepared to do anything you have to do to get it. There are places in every city - even in every nameless backwater burg - where men go to satisfy their particular hunger of the flesh. For Sam, it was a simple matter of finding those places, parking himself, and hanging out that metaphorical "For Rent" sign.

After packing his meager belongings and leaving a terse but not unkind note for Bobby, he had jumped in the Impala and hit the highway. As he put miles behind him, something tight and ugly inside him relaxed just a little. He rolled down the window even though it was barely 40 degrees. But since _that night_ he didn't seem to have any perception of things like temperature, or distance, or even time except as they served to advance or hinder his purpose.

He was headed to the Tillamook County region of Oregon, having heard through the hunter grapevine that an unusual number of demons seemed to be gravitating there for reasons as yet unknown. Sam cared less about the reasons than about the opportunity this presented to interrogate a number of hellspawn about Lilith's whereabouts.

He had had a surprisingly brief conversation in his head on the way - the upshot: of all the methods he could use to make money he would avoid those that involved direct violence or overt criminal behavior that might bring him unwanted attention. Almost no money left, though; he had spent his last eighty dollars topping off the Impala's hungry tank, so he needed to score some cash quick; he was hungry, thirsty and wanted a hot shower and a real bed. He briefly considered finding a pool game to hustle, but it turned out he had a taste for something else tonight.

Sam sat at the end of the bar in a not-at-all-bad-looking food-&-watering-hole on the edge of downtown (if you could call it that) Grand Island, Nebraska after driving the I-80 for the previous 9 hours; he'd bought a shot of Jack and a bottle of Samuel Adams – throwing back the former in one swallow and then taking a healthy swig of the latter. It was around 11pm on a Tuesday; the place wasn't crowded. He took another swallow and did a casual visual circuit of the room.

There; alone at a table near the hallway to the men's room. Dark, expensive suit, medium height and build with dark hair chasing a receding hairline - not unattractive for all that, early 40's maybe, but ruined by the sour aura of furtive guilt that Sam could almost smell across the room as the man's eyes met his for the briefest instant. Obviously on the DL then, Sam thought, nodding almost imperceptibly and slanting his eyes toward the hallway. He slid off his barstool, sauntered across the room and down the short hallway to the men's room. It was no more than two minutes before the mark pushed open the door to the wood-paneled restroom with its old-fashioned, smoked-glass lighting and brass fixtures. There were three roomy stalls; Sam was in the last one – the door still open. He could hear the mark's uncertain steps approaching. Sam reached out and pulled the mark inside. The guy seemed stunned – maybe he was used to being the one in control of such encounters – but Sam's training and instinct demanded that he retain absolute control over these transactions and the easiest way to do that was to immediately put the mark off balance. As soon as the man was in the stall Sam closed and latched the door, backing the mark against it using the hard length of his body.

Sam took the man's head – not ungently - between his long-fingered hands and kissed him vigorously and thoroughly, stealing his breath and any words he might have been planning to say. When Sam finally released the mark's mouth, the man sagged a little as if his knees might give out, his eyes unfocused and hazy with lust. "Ummh..."

Sam leaned down, brushed his lips across the mark's ear, down the side of his neck and back up, whispering, "I know what you want."

He slid his hand down the mark's arm, grabbed his hand and pressed it into the front of his own jeans. "Like that don't you? Want that in you..."

"How – how much?"

"Hundred."

Without hesitation, the mark reached his free hand in a side pocket of his pants, withdrew five twenties and pressed them into Sam's hand.

" Gonna rock you, man – so good," Sam breathed into his ear.

How chilling yet how satisfying it was to be able to infuse his voice with heat and excitement when he felt neither! No – not quite true, to be honest. His dick was feeling quite a lot, throbbing away in his pants. The rest of him was absent – he felt as if he were watching himself from some distance away - seeing himself turn the mark around smoothly and push him forward until he stood with legs spread over the commode – his hands flat against the wall behind it. Sam stepped up behind him, aroused, yet strangely relaxed now, completely in control and seething with a feral energy. Sam reached around with both hands, deftly undid the mark's belt and trousers; he could smell the sweat, almost taste his arousal mixed with fear. He grabbed the mark's right hip, and pulled him toward him as he simultaneously guided his slick, sheathed dick to the mark's butt cheeks, easing them apart…

Soft, guttural moans interspersed with low, growled whispers issued from the last stall for some minutes, ending in a choked, gasping shout of release, then only a breathy silence for a time. Sam stepped back and away from the mark, his dick in its spent rubber still achingly hard. He rolled off the rubber and tossed it in the commode, then wrestled himself back into his jeans. The mark turned to face him, fumbling with his clothes.

"Ummh, what's your name?"

"Val."

"Val." The mark breathed it out on a sigh. I – that was - if I wanted to find you again, how could I?"

"You can't." Without another word, Sam walked of the stall, out of the restroom, and out of the bar. The hundred felt good in his pocket and Sam considered it easy money. Not as profitable as hustling pool maybe but it required less effort, all things considered. Anyway, Dean has always been - (No. Can't think that name - not now. Especially not now.)

It was still early enough to make more money, and even though he wanted only a shower and sleep, he turned in the direction of downtown and headed for the train depot where he'd be likely to snag some well-heeled businessman.

Sam came awake completely and all at once – chased out of sleep by God knew what nightmare. Pale light suffused the room; dawn, by his reckoning. Work to do.

He would make new ammunition for the Colt. He had just the one bullet left (the one he had saved for himself), so he needed more for the other, non-demon killing he had to do. First thing was to inventory whatever silver he possessed then acquire enough to cast a dozen .45 caliber bullets. He found he didn't have much. Time to go to church…

Churches were like a hunter's Home Depot. After visiting several houses of worship, Sam had selected a rather drab-looking Catholic church, its Gothic, shadowed, darkly-wooded interior housing a number of weighty pure silver candelabra, snuffers, holy water basins, censers, salvers and the like. After jimmying open a rectory door, Sam went methodically from room to room collecting the items he sought. He stopped last at the marble basin near the door, dug his flask out from a hip pocket and filled it with holy water. Returning to his room, Sam assembled his equipment and set to it. He worked with nerveless precision and focus, sweat rolling down his temples, down his neck and into his collar as he bent over the glowing crucible with its cache of liquefying silver. There were incantations to be chanted, sigils to be carved into the bullets at each step, and as he worked, Sam fancied that the black energy that fueled his desire to destroy Lilith would likewise infuse itself into each bullet as it was cast – supercharging it with the lethal intent of its maker.

By nightfall, Sam had 12 silver bullets standing upright on a pure white linen altar cloth. They were beautiful, perfect, their hand-finish gleaming. And there was still time to catch a couple hours of sleep before work.


	4. Chapter 4  Respite

Don't Dream It's Over, Chapter 4 – Respite

Eugene, Oregon

Between backdoor poker games and pool hustles and his flourishing career as a whore, Sam has accumulated a nice stake. He manages it with restraint so it pays for a few clothes, a bottle of decent scotch, ammo, and even a new Toshiba laptop.

Because it's a weeknight when most everyone's at home, pacing themselves to stagger through the work week, and because he feels restless and remote, Sam is taking a rare night off. No research, no hunting, no pick-ups. No pool or cards. At 11:55pm he actually finds himself in front of a small, old fashioned marquee theatre showing not six or eight separate films, but one feature at its midnite show: _Last Tango in Paris._ He remembers seeing _Last Tango _back at Stanford, but the recollection itself feels like a scene from a movie. On impulse Sam buys a ticket. The lights are dimming as he slips into the end seat in a row at the back of the nearly empty house. Everyone else is in front of him, easy to keep track of. He stretches his long legs out to the side and slouches down, content to be in the dark with this scattering of strangers, separate but with a shared purpose.

When the lights come up again Sam is still sitting, head back, staring at the frescoed ceiling. He has been crying and his face is wet. He reflects on Brando's character in the film – Paul - so utterly poignant in his desire to be known. The film's perception of the gulfs of difference that separate people – both strangers and those who know and love each other – mirrors Sam's own truth. His tears – the first he has shed since leaving Pontiac, feel like rain and not acid and maybe that is why he allows himself to think of Dean. How Dean would have HATED the movie - thought everyone in it was a douche (except Brando) and would have made endless crude jokes about the "butter scene." He laughs low and it is Dean's laugh he hears.

Several rows down, a man has gotten up to leave. Sam's eyes flick over him, flick back quickly. He sees only the man's profile as he turns away, but there is something familiar in shape or movement that kicks Sam's senses into overdrive and quickens his heartbeat. He follows the figure out on to the street. As Sam hits the sidewalk, the man stops, withdraws a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo from his jacket pocket. He lights a cigarette, the flare of the Zippo's flame limning his face, casting its bone structure in high relief. In the light his short, dirty blond hair glints golden. He has a fine nose and cheekbones, strong chin. He must feel the intensity of Sam's stare, because he snaps the Zippo closed and looks straight at Sam.

Sam looks back and decides then and there to be lost, because everything that Sam does is planned, calculated and purposeful – even his infrequent attempts at human interaction. In the few seconds it takes him to process the face – catalogue the similarities and differences, read the strength in the graceful, compact body, Sam allows to himself that this will end badly for at least one of them, and will almost certainly prove to not have been worth it.

Looking over, Sam scissors his fingers (…got another cigarette?) The guy nods and Sam's already walking over. He takes the proffered smoke but doesn't light it. The guy smiles faintly at that as if he's not surprised.

His eyes are a warm, bronze color. "Saw you inside. First time?"

"No."

"A fan, then. Such a great movie. On my top-ten-of-all-time list. "

"Yeah?" Sam smiles, flashing dimples. "What are the other nine?"

"Huh – truthfully? The list is always changing 'cos I love the movies. But that one - that one's a fucking masterpiece of human nakedness."

The guy stops speaking suddenly, looks down as if embarrassed by his own words. "I suppose that sounds all kinds of emo."

"Nah – it doesn't."

"I'm Chase".

Sam smiles, nods. "Sam."

Sam is enchanted because he wants to be. There's a bar nearby; they walk to it not speaking much, already comfortable with each other. Over beers and shots they talk about _Last Tango_ and other movies.

The young man whose name is Chase is really nothing like Dean, personality-wise. He is cerebral, shy, and excitable. But Sam sees in Chase what could have been Dean, or maybe - what might have remained were all the outer Dean stripped away – the careless charm, the alpha-male aggressiveness, the carefully camouflaged vulnerability and self-doubt. It pleases Sam to think so, because Chase is open and receptive, not angry, wounded and intractable.

It's late when they leave and they're both half-hammered – not quite staggering but pleasantly goofy and loose, fuzzyheaded with sublimated lust. For the first time since Dean – left - Sam is smitten with a blessed numbness - a sense of non-feeling that is neutral instead of wounding - that carries no accusations, echoes or memories.

They are cutting through a small overgrown park when Chase suddenly stops, throws one arm around Sam's neck and brushes his scotch-kissed lips against Sam's. Sam doesn't so much respond as _combust_ - crushing Chase to him, owning his mouth, pressing his entire length against Chase's hot, hard body.

"Christ!"

Drunk and horny as he is, still, Chase is unprepared for Sam, whose need for sexual release is massive and beyond restraining. His lust for Chase is a poisonous fever born of grief, guilt, and shame. He feels as if electric current is coursing through his body making him jiggy and hyperaware. But Sam is silent even as his hands seek, and press, and claim - even as his mouth wrings gasping moans from Chase.

For his part, Chase has never been touched or handled quite this way before. When he had first caught Sam's eye a spark of – something – had flashed between them. But by the time they had left the bar Chase understood that whatever happened between them would not outlive the night. Now, caught in the eye of the sexual hurricane that is Sam, Chase is glad of that as he now also understands that whatever the outcome of this encounter may be, it is out of his hands.

A little grove of trees surrounds them - ambient sounds from the nearby streets are muted, blending into an undifferentiated low murmur. The only light comes from tall wrought iron lamps that form soft islands of light here and there, and as Sam and Chase lurch to a stop beneath a huge, old leafy oak, the lamp nearest to them crackles, sputters and goes dark. In the remaining whisper of light from the moon Chase senses more than sees Sam as he steers Chase backwards into the massive trunk of the oak. Pressing Chase's lower half into the tree with the pressure of his thighs, Sam rests his palms against the bark on either side of Chase's head, bends in, and all but sucks Chase's soul out through his lips. Then Sam's hands are everywhere on him and it's all sensation – searing, flashing fire where Sam touches him; his blood feels like quicksilver. He can feel every nerve ending in his body and each one is firing from this incredible tactile overload. Sam pulls back, silent as he has been throughout. He looks down into Chase's eyes. A thrill of fear jolts through Chase as, perhaps for the first time since this began he looks deep into Sam's eyes. He cannot begin to sort or define the mess of emotions churning within those agate-colored depths that now spark and glint strangely. The green irises seem lambent in the crowding darkness. Chase suddenly doesn't really want to look into them anymore.

But this body crushing his, the hard animal heat of it, is demanding release. And Chase wants more than anything to be the instrument of that release. Slowly, his hands slide down Sam's heaving sides, grip his hips as Chase sinks to his knees on the soft sward. Sam looms above him. Chase all but tears open Sam's jeans, desperate to feel his mouth around Sam's flesh. There is no time for butterfly kisses, teasing licks. His mouth closes over Sam, drawing him in deeply, completely, and Chase can't be sure whether the sighing moan he hears is his or Sam's.

Sam finds he cannot look down. He cannot watch this. To watch will destroy the beautiful numbness that allowed this to occur. Instead, he raises his face to the moon, his softly glowing eyes focused on nothing, his mind blessedly blank.

His release, when it comes, feels like a theft. The intensity of sensation is almost immediately subsumed by a crushing wave of loss and emptiness. Yet when he looks down at Chase on his knees, arms clasped around Sam's thighs, his gaze is pensive and almost tender. Chase turns his head up to meet Sam's eyes.

"Ummm _– Sam – God, Sammy…" he exhales. _

Before he can draw his next breath, Sam's fingers have snaked around his neck, wrenched him to his feet.

"Don't call me that," Sam grounds out between his clenched teeth, eyes stormy beneath drawn brows. "Not ever."

Chase wants to look away but can't. "S-sorry. I'm sorry".

He is momentarily afraid, but Chase is an empathetic sort, and Sam's pain and anger are not subtle. Nor is the aura of danger and power rolling off him in waves now. But Chase senses that he need not fear Sam; he is simply not important enough. The dark shadows swirling in Sam's eyes clear; his fingers uncurl from around Chase's neck so suddenly that Chase stumbles, off-balance.

Sam slings an arm around his shoulders. "C'mon." Not another word is spoken between them in the time it takes for them to exit the park. Once back on the darkened street Sam spies out a taxi, practically drags Chase to it, opens the door. Mind awhirl, Chase tumbles into the back seat and looks out at Sam, waiting.

"Address".

"What?"

"What's your address? Where do you live?" Chase, brain sluggish with spent adrenaline and alcohol depression, has to think for a second, understands that Sam is not coming with him.

Glad of that.

"I'm okay, Sam. It's okay."

Sam looks at Chase, his face impassive. "No. It's not." He slams the door, turns and walks away. By the time Chase gives the driver his address and looks back Sam has vanished, and Chase reflects fuzzily that the whole evening could have been some alcohol-fueled fantasy except for the lingering ache at the back of his bruised throat.

The ride to his apartment passes in a blur of confused emotions, fear of Sam and lust for him, tinged more than a little with a discomforting sense of awe. Chase's last thought as he falls gratefully into his bed is that this must be how people feel after a "close encounter."


	5. Chapter 5  Hour of the Wolf

"Don't Dream It's Over, Chapter 5 - Hour of the Wolf

There are many caves worming beneath and through the rocky hills that rear up along the wild Oregon coast. Their contours, carved out by the relentless motion of the sea, stretch back and back, their entrances revealed by the ebbing tide.

Darius the Demon grunts with the effort of dragging 240 pounds of inert human through the steamy, sodden confines of a particular cave. For the past several days, he and his brethren have snatched up an unprecedented number of humans. The bodies of some they have simply appropriated for their temporary habitation. Others will be fodder in a massive spell that will elevate his master, the Torturer Exemplar Alastair, to the role of King of Hell.

Since his discovery of a previously unknown Hell Gate, Alastair has acted with rabid single-mindedness to gain control over it. Hell Gates are treacherous and unstable portals between planes of existence. They exist partly in the physical world, but they are not truly of it. No one living, except perhaps the eternally absent Lucifer, knows where all the Gates are, or how many. The discovery of this one is a secret Alastair clutches to himself, for the power conferred by this knowledge could not only give him mastery in Hell, it will ensure his victory in the coming battle with the Angels of the Lord. Their scheme to save his favorite subject, Dean Winchester, of which he recently became aware, will end in their deaths. Then he will pursue his plan to rule in Hell and unleash upon the sons of Adam his demon army, creating evil and chaos among the living, and sentencing untold numbers to damnation.

Darius, of course, is not privy to the whole of Alastair's plan. No one is. He knows only that a mighty blood spell - one that requires many gallons of fresh human blood to power it - will open this particular Gate. The Gate has remained unknown through the millennia not only because of its location – obscured by the ceaseless flow of the tides – but because the mechanism to open it – the spell – was lost in the mists of time, unknown to any demon now living (except perhaps Lucifer). Then Alastair, through his substantial network of demon lackeys, located an ancient _Daemon_, the last Loremaster of his race. This wizened sack of insidiousness waxed loquacious beneath the compelling mercies of Alastair's scalpel. The cryptic recollections pulled from his malevolent, antediluvian brain led Alastair to a tiny volume of demon lore that resided not in the keeping of Hell's folk, but in the dusty bookshop of a human on earth. With his knowledge of the spell and with the means to cast it, Alastair plans to bring about his own version of the Apocalypse.

Ω Ω Ω

3:00 AM – the Hour of the Wolf approaches. Clutching to his breast the ancient book, Alastair enters the mouth of the cave now revealed by the still-retreating tide. All is proceeding as he has planned; the bound and subdued captives are stacked like cordwood throughout the cave, all unknowingly awaiting their bloody fate. Each demon has been charged with killing two humans so that the deaths will occur simultaneously, releasing a river of blood and soul energy in a great psychical explosion. Upon the release of this energy, Alastair will pronounce the arcane syllables of the incantation that will breach the border that separates the demesne of the Damned from that of the living.

For miles around in quiet dark fathers and mothers and children lie all unaware and asleep in their beds, trusting that the sun will rise tomorrow on the world as they know it, while in their midst a dark and terrible evil is now being wrought. As the Hour of the Wolf strikes on this moonless night, Alastair performs the simultaneous blood sacrifice of a hundred humans while pronouncing the twisted syllables of an incantation that has been unspoken since Lucifer's fall, throwing wide the portal into Hell.

Ω Ω Ω

To be continued…


	6. Chapter 6 Reversal of Fortune

Don't Dream It's Over, Chapter 6 - Reversal of Fortune

Sam rose the morning after his boy date, packed up his duffle and booked out of the Ponderosa Lodge. A brief phone conversation with Bobby late last night confirmed what Sam had already suspected. The disparate crop of demon signs that had bloomed over the past week in and around a little coastal town in Oregon called Rockaway Beach – population 9,987 – had mushroomed almost overnight into a full-on happening – numerous unexplained violent deaths, unnatural natural phenomena like ball lightning over the cemeteries, and a passel of missing persons - enough to send Sam on his way – hopeful that at last he might pick up a good lead on Lilith's whereabouts.

The drive from Eugene to Rockaway Beach on the western edge of the Oregon coast is a short 75 miles or so along Interstate 5. It is a quiet, upscale vacation town with miles of gorgeous shoreline, picture-postcard dunes and rental bungalows, and a small commercial center boasting quaint boutiques, galleries featuring local artists, a few nice restaurants, and shops. Sam drives around unobtrusively, just another potential vacationer.

Soon after his arrival, though, Sam's internal "demon meter" confirms his suspicion that there is more to Rockaway Beach. He senses a massive confluence of demon energy somewhere near the water. After checking in at a modest motel just off the highway Sam powers up his new laptop. As he scrolls through topographical maps of the area he focuses in on the swarm of demon energy flowing through his senses, trying to get a precise reading on its location.

This is interesting. There is a series of rocky hills that jut up in a chain along the bathing beach area. A number of tidal caves snake through those hills; some of them look to extend quite deep into the rock.

Sam senses that the caves are significant, and he needs to get closer to the demon gathering to obtain a captive to interrogate. Easing the Impala out on to the road, he heads toward the beach.

Sam pulls off the road into a small, piney wooded area abutting the long expanse of beach that stretches away into the hazy midday. From here he can see the outline of the rocky hills that hide their honeycomb of caves. There are no people around anywhere. No noises of seabirds, cicadas, or any other natural creature break the muffled silence. That absence alone alerts Sam to the presence of evil even without the noxious essence-of-demon that floods his senses like a bad smell.

Sam shuts his eyes and draws into himself, probing the ether for one entity whose location he can pinpoint. There are several demons in the area it seems, although the energy Sam reads is not constant but rather fluctuates erratically as if the size of the demon presence is constantly shifting. Suddenly, Sam's eyes flick open in surprise, reflexively flashing brilliant green.

He flings his power outward like a fierce, barbed net searching for a particular entity that he sensed a moment ago. It had been just a brush, a whisper, but in that momentary contact Sam had sensed enormous power and the miasma of monstrous evil. _An arch-demon._

He has never manipulated a single being of such power before, but he is confident that he will dominate this entity as he has every other he has targeted. Before he confronts this arch-demon he will learn all he can about it. His eyes close to slits, glinting greenish gold as he again casts his energy outward, seeking a single demonic creature of middling power that he can draw to him.

He locates an isolated, sentient bundle of bad vibes and pulls it to him with ruthless efficiency. The still, cool air of the little glade suddenly shimmers, heats, and pulses with the odor of sulfur. A snarling male form materializes in the center of the shimmer, its torso wrapped and lashed in scintillant bonds of pure energy that bind it as a lariat binds a calf. Sam eyes the creature in silence, waiting for it to orient itself, finish its struggling, and acknowledge his complete mastery over it.

Within a few seconds the demon is scowling at Sam, its resignation a sour stench in the humid air. Although Sam can read the creature's mind, he prefers not to unless it becomes necessary (the minds of demons being depressingly predictable and repulsive, as they generally focus on hurting, destroying, and creating sadness, despair and hatred.) Even though it will take a little longer, Sam will simply force the demon to answer his questions rather than sift through the filthy detritus of its thoughts.

"What is your name?"

Snarls "Eshiam."

"Why have you come here?"

"Arrgh. What – what are you? You are not one of us, yet you have power over us. You're not angel – no. Unnggh…"

"I ask the questions here."

The demon – Eshiam – drew into itself, instinctively cringing away from the flare of Sam's annoyance.

"Who is your master?"

The wretched creature's eyes rolled in its head like thrown dice as it strove to resist Sam's power.

"Ahhhhalastair. His name is Alastair-rrr– uggh…"

"Why have you come here?"

"To secure the Hell Gate."

"What? – a Hell Gate here? Where? Where is it?" Sam growled.

"A cave – deep in the mountain - uugh. Forgotten for millennia, but Alastair found it."

Although Sam had little hope that this trembling idiot could provide much in the way of detail, he persisted. "Why? What does this Alastair plan to do? Is he gonna open the gate?"

Eshiam gnashed its teeth in an awful parody of a smile.

"Too late! Too late, Son of Darkness! He has opened the Gate!

"When?" Sam snarled.

"Last night at the Hour of the Wolf, by the blood of one hundred souls!"

A hundred souls! Sam reeled with the thought. One hundred lives gone – and not only gone - snuffed out horribly and cruelly – sliced and bled like livestock in an abattoir, no doubt. And last night! He reddens with shame, remembering exactly what he was doing last night around the time a hundred innocents were being slaughtered. Had he left Eugene yesterday he might have prevented this awful evil. Sam brutally squashed down the sorrow and despair that threatened to paralyze him.

"What is his plan?" he ground out with savage composure.

Blood started from between Eshiam's grinding teeth as he struggled in the throes of Sam's relentless will.

"Alastair seeks souls!" he spat. "Not just the souls of the already damned, but fresh human souls. Soon he will send us out - thousands of us - to acquire souls, to make deals. To swell the ranks of Hell! I do not know his plan. But to take so many souls will grant Alastair great power. Greater than almost any hellborn save Lucifer himself!

"But why now?"

"I know no more! Nothing, nothing, nothing nothing…" the demon trailed off, half-gibbering.

After willing Eshiam unconscious Sam paid it no more thought. It slumped inside the still-glowing bands of power that held it in thrall.

Another Hell Gate – like Wyoming! Perhaps inspired by Azazel's success there, this Alastair had a like plan in mind – open the gate – unleash a thousand demons – more – on to the unsuspecting world. Whatever. Sam's immediate interest, if the truth be told, was less in the arch-demon's eventual plan for this Hell Gate than in the unexpected opportunity it presented for him. He had tried to open the Devil's Gate in Wyoming to go after Dean but the Colt had failed to unlock the vault a second time. The discovery of a second, accessible Hell Gate presented a chance to retrieve Dean and negated the need to find Lilith to do so. He would locate this Hell Gate and gain access to Hell. He would find his brother and carry him back to the world of the living. He would deal with the Hell Gate and Lilith after he had Dean back and safe.

Sam turned back to the somnolent Eshiam, considering his next move. It was crucial from here on to remain unemotional and detached, to maintain focus and control. He wouldn't allow himself even a moment of hope or elation even though he felt himself closer now than he had ever been to finding Dean. Despite his burgeoning power Sam had never been able to breach Hell, even using a possessed demon as a ride. Perhaps it was because he was still human, not dead - and not damned, for all his demon blood. Whatever the reason, Sam had early on given up on the idea of getting into Hell and bodily bearing Dean's soul away. Now though, it appeared to be less of an impossibility given the verified presence of an open Hell Gate.

A plan began to take shape. He would locate the arch-demon Alastair, wrest every bit of knowledge from him about Hell and the Gate, and mount a siege of Hell – because Sam understood now that that's what it would take to bring his brother home.

Now that the possibility actually existed for Dean to live again, Sam considered the one knotty obstacle that remained: Dean would need a body – more precisely – his body – when he returned topside. But his torn and gutted corpse was still rotting in a box back in Pontiac with no way to retrieve it. Sam didn't know how he would manage to reunite Dean with his meatsuit, but he decided on the moment that he would carry Dean's soul out of hell and back to Pontiac, and make up the rest as he went. Now that he was here in the midst of Demon Central, Sam could almost taste the demon blood he was about to spill. An implacable calm settled in him born of his complete willingness to do whatever was necessary to accomplish his mission.

Sam quickly skims through the mind of the quiescent Eshiam, retrieving the precise location of the Hell Gate. Having no further use for the demon, he directs a bolt of searing energy through it, leaving naught but a sizzling blotch on the soft loam to show it was ever there. In the next moment, Sam teleports to the mouth of the now-exposed tidal cave that masks the Gate. The cave is dark and humid, the odor of sulfur stifling. Unlike the frenzied legions of demons and damned souls that belched from the riven gates of the vault in Wyoming, only a few of the roiling cones of black smoke are drifting from the cave mouth when Sam arrives. Cloaked in his power, Sam passes invisibly by them and slips soundlessly inside the entrance.

The cave, rather shallow-appearing at first glance, gradually narrows to a cul-de-sac from which a narrow tunnel branches back and downward. Sam follows the winding course of the tunnel into the depths of the mountain, his eyes, ears, sense of smell and even touch spiked to their utmost limits. The cave twists and turns with many switchbacks and small alcoves along the way. He estimates that he is more than a mile in from the cave's entrance. As he draws nearer to the Gate itself, Sam is assaulted by a cornucopia of godawful smells - the ubiquitous sulfur, blood - both fresh and ancient, putrefying flesh, bodily gasses, and fear.

As he turns a final corner, the walls of the tunnel reflect a molten glow. Sam can sense the Hell Gate itself now - can feel the relentless crushing presence of millions of damned and tortured souls just beyond its boundaries.

A few steps further and the tunnel suddenly widens out into a cathedral-like chamber. At its center the sickening odors of damnation percolate from a great seething, churning pit.

Human language, expressive and varied as it is, contains no words adequate to truly describe the phenomenon that is Hell. Its vastness is immeasurable, its borders and features constantly in flux. It is many places and yet not a place. It is the repository of everything rotten and noxious - every odor is poisonous and rank, every surface fouled with slime and scum. In Hell, every sound is cacophonous and painful to the ear. The landscape, rendered in a nauseous palate of reds, blacks, and the shades of putrefaction and rot for which there are no names, appears to warp and morph so that shapes and contours shift queasily, like something half-liquid, half solid. Over all, an acrid, searing wind moans ceaselessly, carrying the groans, shrieks, whimpers and screams of the wretched souls imprisoned here.

The arch-demon called Alastair, having reassumed his true form, stands before a translucent globe within whose milky depths strange shapes writhe and curl. Alastair is old, older than most humans could even reckon, and Hell holds no terror for him. It is his home.

Alastair's true form is quite unlovely, even for a demon. The bodies of demons are, generally speaking, a physical reflection of their psyches, and Alastair's psyche is seriously twisted – even for a demon. Thus, his appearance is correspondingly horrific. From his massive, hairless, elongated skull to his colorless, scaly skin, spidery, scabrous limbs, and eyes as flat and black as those of a great white shark, Alastair is spectacularly fugly.

As he gazes, rapt, into the globe, a pair of great, leathery wings unfurl at his back as if animated by some will of their own. They rustle dryly in the crackling air as he picks up a goblet made of a human skull that is brimming with fresh human blood. His scaly lips move soundlessly, forming vowels that would confound a human mouth as he pours the contents of the goblet over the surface of the milky sphere. His jet-black eyes cut its coruscating surface. He is scrying out the location of the angelic force. Specifically, he is searching out their point of entry into Hell. It is vital that Alastair intercept the angels as soon as they appear before they can get a bead on Dean.

Alastair allows himself a moment to reflect fondly on his favorite soul, Dean Winchester - on all the days, months and years of blessed torture, deprivation, humiliation and pain they have shared. Dean's suffering has a particular cache to Alastair, tinged as it always is with the self-inflicted lashes born of the hunter's own scarred psyche – his guilt, loneliness, and self-hatred. Most of the souls that have enjoyed Alastair's attention deserved every moment of their torture, and more. But Dean is that rare subject whose heart is untainted by evil, whose only crime was in the deal that was struck – and that for the most loathsome of reasons – self-sacrifice out of love for another. How much sweeter it is then, to wring the screams, moans, cries and tears from him. And Alastair is far from done. Hell has plans for Dean Winchester and they will not be deferred.

The milky interior of the globe slowly clears like fog dissolving under the rays of a morning sun. The view Alastair sees ripples and wavers as if submerged in clear water, but he recognizes it as a remote corner of Hell where the oldest damned souls reside. Something is happening even now, as he looks on. There is a rustling, soft as a whisper at first that builds in both intensity and volume until it is a pervasive, thunderous _whooshing _that eclipses every other sound and sensation. The firmament of Hell is an ever-mutable, dark, gloomy expanse – not a true ceiling but more a layer of purposed energy that keeps Hell from slopping out all over the rest of the universe.

In the shadowy upper reaches of this vault the whooshing intensifies, accompanied by a pearlescent glow that begins as a pinprick and grows quickly into a blinding, coruscating mass of brilliant white light. The mere presence of this energy in the bowels of Hell is sufficient to jar the delicate balance of the universal yin/yang. Hell was never meant to be illuminated and laid bare in this fashion. The wrongness of it, the displacement of sanity it prompts shears across Alastair's consciousness. A grimace of fear and hatred flickers across his scarred features as he stares at the blossoming glow that marks the arrival of the fearsome _Pantangeli -_ a kind of divine fighting squadron composed of five angels who have now breached the arch-demon's demesne. The foul blood in Alastair's veins boils with equal parts rage and anticipation. He has planned well, he thinks with satisfaction. It will take the interlopers precious time to locate the Winchester and Alastair has had plenty of time, as Hell reckons it, to ready his legion and lay a few particularly nasty traps.

As the cluster of angels begins to drift downward toward the roiling "surface" of Hell, a roaring, snarling, screeching clamor precedes the arrival of a monstrous horde of demons and hellhounds. By the hundreds they come, scrabbling and clawing in their frenzy to reach the angels, their eyes incandescent with balefire, and their claws clacking and scraping along the erupting, smoking ground. The angels, floating in the stagnant air with their heads close together like some alien bouquet, spring apart at the sounds and regard the demon multitude calmly, their eyes blazing with God's grace.

Their "leader" in this mission, one Castiel, gestures to one of his brothers to follow him. The three remaining angels turn as one toward the oncoming mob, the edges of their gigantic wings limned in silver radiance, their true faces shining forth, glorious and terrifying. Short, gleaming swords appear in their hands as they dive down to engage the forces of chaos and evil.

Castiel, meanwhile, speeds towards the object of this rescue. After eons of simply watching mankind while waiting for bits of Revelation to be granted, he is aflame with righteous purpose. This man, this _Dean Winchester,_ is one of those rare and special humans who is both blessed and cursed by Destiny, Fate, and Chance. Castiel has watched this Dean as he navigates through a life burdened more than most with sorrow, madness, evil and pain. He has looked deeply into Dean's heart and mind and has found much to admire. When he was told he would lead the rescue of Dean from Hell, he was – elated - even as he squashed down his guilt at feeling this – or any- feeling. Now that he is in Hell Castiel's psychic connection to Dean guides him unerringly toward the human whose suffering burns in Castiel's mind like a flaming brand.

Distance, like all measures and dimensions in Hell, is different. Here, space and time bend in disturbing and unnatural ways. As Castiel and his brother wing their way through the vaulted caverns of Hell, Alastair rushes to intercept them, his own immense, scabrous wings bearing him effortlessly through the steamy murk.

To be continued…


	7. Chapter 7  Reap the Whirlwind

Chapter 7 – Reap the Whirlwind

Sam stands at the lip of the seething Hellhole, considering for a moment the enormity of the task before him. His mind is clear, his entire being focused on his goal. He feels neither fear nor doubt; either he will fail, in which case he will die, or he will succeed and bring his brother home. There are no other alternatives. He leaps...

…and falls for what seems like moments - or eternity, for Hell is madness and illusion and Sam, for all his power, is not immune.

Sam bursts into being in this most damned plane of existence and comes immediately to himself, his gaze sweeping back and forth, internalizing the dimensions of the vast, mad vista that confronts him. He senses an enormous convergence of demon energy somewhere ahead and to the left of his current position, a_nd something else – another kind of energy – immensely powerful._ He turns in that direction, effortlessly willing himself through hundreds of planes and levels of the Damned Dominion.

Finally - or perhaps only seconds later - an unholy cacophony smites Sam's ears as he ventures closer, still immaterial and invisible to all eyes.

Sam has never seen an _angel_, yet he instinctively recognizes the celestial nature of the magnificent beings at the center of the battle unfolding before him.

He is awestruck.

Through all his years of hunting vamps, werewolves, ghouls, striga, crocotta, wendigos, demons and all the rest, Sam had kept the flame of his belief in a higher power alive although he would have admitted that at times it flickered. But _Angels! _For all the countless clashes with evil down the long trail of years, Sam had never seen even a spark of what he imagined to be the ultimate incarnation of good – _an Angel_. It wasn't that he actively didn't believe in them; they simply had no substance. They had existed as a soothing idea and no more. And now here they were - not as divine messengers or gentle comforters, but as God's avenging warriors.

Despite the urgency of his own mission, Sam cannot tear his gaze from the angels. Their gigantic forms seem to shimmer with a pure white light, masking the details of their features. But now and then as the light flows and pulses, Sam catches a clear glimpse of them. One, whose gigantic wings sweep demons and hellhounds alike aside with each muscular beat, seems to have six arms, each holding a silver sword which slashes independently, spearing or beheading a slavering demon with each fierce stroke. Another suddenly soars straight upward, blazing a fiery white trail through the blood-tinged murk. Then, at the zenith of its arc it twists in the air - the fangs in its silver lion-face bared and gleaming - and rockets back down, arms extended, long silver talons curved to rend the enemy as it lands among them. A third angel battling at the center of a 100-demon cluster suddenly begins to glow with an effulgence so intense that even Sam has to close his eyes to slits lest his eyeballs melt right out of his head – which is, in fact, the effect on most of the remaining demons in the immediate area.

Still, Sam can see that more and more demons, hellhounds, and other, less recognizable creatures are streaming into the fray from all directions. He fears suddenly that the angels, for all their divine power, will be overcome by sheer numbers. For a moment Sam is torn. He should help them. But the need to find Dean overpowers all other considerations. When he has recovered Dean and taken care of Alastair, he will return. Sam withdraws his energy into himself then thrusts it forth in a long, questing bolt. Once. Twice. And again. THERE!

The noxious energy that is Alastair suddenly floods Sam's senses like a noseful of rotten milk. In the space of a thought he projects himself toward the energy.

Ω ∞ ∑

The space occupied by Dean Winchester is rather unique, even for Hell. Upon learning of Dean's imminent arrival Alastair had labored feverishly to construct a fitting "residence" for the damned hunter. No ordinary alcove furnished with a bone rack would do for this son of one of the most hated enemies of the Dark.

No.

Dean Winchester would languish through eternity in a nightmare room designed just for him, constructed of blood, earth, bone, rock, and sinew mortared together with the fluids of corruption and waste. His ears would be forever assailed by accusing voices, floating from the walls themselves, of all the dead he could not save, his family, his ancestors, the ghosts of his never-to-be-born children and grandchildren. He would hang suspended among the instruments of torture and degradation that lined the slimy, oozing walls of his oubliette and he would come to know intimately all the many nuances of suffering that Hell, via Alastair, could provide.

And Alastair had to admit, Dean didn't disappoint. He could hardly wait for this minor skirmish to be over so he could get back to enjoying his Number 1 Boy.

Alastair decides on the moment to remove Dean from his space and secrete him elsewhere in Hell just until things die down. He could dispatch a couple of flunkies to do this, but such is Alastair's sick attachment to Dean that the thought of others touching him is unacceptable. Just as he is about to cross the threshold, though, Alastair's ears are assaulted by a sudden, reverberating concussion of sound that momentarily stuns and disorients him.

The sound is the aftershock created by the arrival of Castiel and his brother Afriel, protector of the young. Alastair and the two angels lock eyes for a moment. Then, in one smooth motion Alastair draws a strange object from one of his voluminous sleeves and hurls it straight toward the two angels. Castiel's wings flatten and he drops toward the surface in a movement too fast to track. Afriel, only a hair slower, takes the full brunt of a blast of icy matter that first strikes him and then seems to expand and expand until it envelops him like a filmy black cocoon. The substance – unknown to any but the denizens of Hell where it is mined - begins to shrink and constrict, the angel trapped within likewise being crushed smaller and smaller until with a hollow _pop_! he disappears. Castiel spares the merest glance toward his vanished brother before leaping to his feet, drawing his gleaming silver sword and turning to face the grinning Alastair.

As Castiel sweeps toward him Alastair thrusts his arm straight into the air. From nowhere, as if magnetically drawn to him, a short, twisted staff made of some black shiny substance flies into his extended hand. It emits an indescribable odor of putrefaction, and Alastair is careful as he wields it to hold it far from his own body.

Simultaneously, four massive demons materialize on either side of Castiel, seizing his arms and legs and stripping him of the silver sword. He immediately ceases struggling and closes his eyes as his body begins to vibrate, faintly at first, and then faster and faster until a deep, droning hum displaces the fetid air. The demons fight to keep their grip on Castiel as Alastair appears before him, the reeking ebony staff held aloft. If the staff touches Castiel he will not die, but he will perhaps wish he could, for the substance of the staff is a poison deadly to angels. Merely touching it to his skin will almost instantaneously render him insane - unable to fight, fly, speak or understand. Castiel realizes he will not break free of the demons holding him before Alastair touches him with the staff. Even as despair floods through him with the knowledge that he will fail his Father, fail Dean Winchester and consequently, fail all of humankind, Castiel exerts all the power he can muster to throw off the demons restraining him.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash crackles in the air behind Alastair and a tall figure materializes out of the resulting vacuum, its form exuding a faint golden fluorescence. A powerful thrust of energy slams into the four demons holding Castiel. They vaporize instantaneously into a cloud of sticky, red droplets. Castiel looks past the stunned Alastair, his brain at first unwilling to accept what his eyes register, for he recognizes this being.

It is Sam Winchester! Brother of Dean -tainted with Darkness, his life every bit as twisted and destiny-laden as his brother's. Castiel has not even the time to wonder how it is that Sam is here, although he has already sensed that Sam is something other than human - something more, and perhaps – less. Energy is rippling off Sam in enormous waves that are all but visible to Castiel. He is shocked by the almost limitless power he senses in the young hunter.

For a timeless moment, the three form a frozen tableau within the heaving chaos that surrounds them. Then Castiel heads for the barred entrance to Dean's prison as Alastair, lips asnarl, moves to intercept him, still clutching the poisoned staff.

There is no warning, no sensation of movement. In the space of a breath, Alastair finds himself staring into a pair of piercing, luminous eyes that hold his gaze like twin magnets. He feels himself pinioned against the smoldering outer wall of Dean's cage, unable to move a muscle, to twitch or even blink. His astonishment is so great it leaves no room even for fear.

For an instant Alastair's mind recoils from the gargantuan force that assaults it. The silent psychic struggle that ensues is brief and violent, its outcome foregone. In the end Alastair's massive will lies crushed beneath the juggernaut that is Sam - his mind laid open like a gutted carp.

Leaving the drooling Alastair suspended on the bloody wall, Sam turns and follows Castiel, who has burst asunder the door to Dean's prison and disappeared within. Even Castiel, despite the evil and torture he has observed through the eons of his angelic existence, is not immune to the reality of Dean Winchester's damnation. Existing for even a few moments in this vile, unholy place makes Castiel feel filthy and violated. He can scarcely imagine what it has wrought in the soul of the valiant human.

With a touch, Castiel frees Dean from the barbed chains that secure him to the wall; the angel's gentle fingers graze the side of Dean's ravaged face and he falls immediately into dreamless unconsciousness. Castiel is gathering the broken, bleeding form in his arms when Sam steps to his side. Castiel looks up to meet Sam's questing gaze.

"This is why the angels came here? For my brother?"

Castiel stares deeply into Sam's eyes - reads the fierce love, the furious rage, the guilt and pain warring within this singular human. There will be no hiding the truth from this man but Castiel knows that their most immediate enemy is time; the whole truth will have to wait.

"Yes", says Castiel. "We were sent to raise Dean from perdition and restore him to life."

The sudden hope that flares in Sam's golden eyes touches Castiel profoundly.

"You – you can do this? Put him back in his body? Whole and alive?"

"Yes, of course", Castiel solemnly replies. "Although - Sam, we _will_ heal his body and his mind of much of the destruction wrought by his torture, but -"

Sam's flashing eyes narrow dangerously. "But what?"

"But there is only so much we can do to heal his soul and spirit. These are the aspects of humanity that Hell is designed to destroy. Even restored to himself, Dean will suffer the effects of damnation for a long time, perhaps for all time."

Sam digests this statement, accepts it. He will do whatever needs to be done to make Dean whole. Whatever it takes. It is enough for now that the last obstacle to his brother's return to life – a way to get him back in his body – has been removed, and by the best of all possible agents – Angels of the Lord.

"Take him, then. Go. I will deal with Alastair."

Castiel thinks on this and almost smiles. "Yes, I'm sure you will."

Sam turns to go, then stops. "You know my name it seems, but I don't know yours."

"I am Castiel."

"Castiel, thank you. Thank you for my brother's life. Whatever your reason – and we _will _talk about that in time - I owe you. I won't forget it."

Castiel is touched by the humility that resonates from this strange and immensely powerful human. Sam turns again to leave then stops, turns back, now looking down with burning tenderness at his sleeping brother.

"Castiel, there is one more thing I would ask of you."

Castiel nods.

"When you bring Dean back, please don't mention me or anything about my presence here. Let him believe that the angels alone rescued him. Will you do that?"

Castiel nods again solemnly. It will, after all, not really be lying. Just omission. And he knows that the brothers will have much to deal with…

Sam lingers for a moment more, his eyes roaming over his brother's battered face and body. Now that he is actually physically this close to him, he can barely stop himself from tearing Dean from Castiel's arms and crushing him in his own. But he mustn't weaken now. There is still work to be done.

Alastair.

Ω Ω Ω

Sam regards his captive silently, considering what is necessary. The most important thing now is to learn as much as he can about what happened to Dean here so Sam can help him deal with it. He must also find out how to close and secure the Gate. As distasteful as it is, he has decided to simply flay Alastair's mind and cull the information he needs. The agony this mental rape will cause the demon is merely icing on the cake.

Sam bears down, inexorably forcing the razor-edge of his will deeper and deeper into the arch-demon's being, slicing through his memories, his passions, needs, and fears - his very sense of self - with surgical precision. He learns the process and the incantation for the spell; learns how Alastair discovered the Gate. Alastair writhes beneath the onslaught, bloody foam and spittle flying from his gash of a mouth.

Sam's heart stutters as he searches more of Alastair's memories, seeking knowledge of Dean. But he is completely unprepared for the scenes of torment and sadism that flood his mind. One after another like slides flashing on a screen, he is bombarded by visions of Dean – his beautiful brother - conscious and screaming as his skin is flayed from his body, as sizzling metal rods are pressed everywhere into him; as flames melt the flesh from his bones, as needles, spikes, and hooks pierce his limbs, as razors slice his eyelids, lips, ears and tongue, as ravenous flesh-eating scarabs burrow under his skin, devouring him from the inside.

He hears Alastair's cruel taunts stream forth obscenely as he probes and slashes, trying to break Dean down with lies about Sam, about their mother and their father. He sees a succession of demons cloaked in the forms of Bobby, John, Mary - worst of all Sam himself – wielding the instruments of torture with awful glee. He can feel, too, his brother's terrible agony and suffering, and the inconsolable desolation, self-loathing, and black despair that are gradually destroying Dean's very soul…

The scenes continue with merciless clarity until Sam wrenches his mind back, stunned and sickened. It is so much worse than he had even conceived. He hardly feels the tears that course freely down his face, and he cannot see that his own eyes as they stare into Alastair's have morphed from a glowing greenish gold into two hellish, luminous bronze disks completely devoid of human qualities. For a split second Sam feels his control waver beneath the force of his emotion, and with savage concentration he crushes down the sorrow and empathic pain that engulfs him.

He can barely look into the face of this – _abomination - _much less suffer its continued existence. A burning lust to inflict unspeakable pain on Alastair suffuses Sam's being, and it is only by a monumental effort of will that he is able to pull his blasted senses together.

Sam struggles to master the violent intent that has all but consumed his soul. There will be time enough - and soon - to allow the black rage within him free rein. Grasping Alastair by the neck, Sam zaps them both back to the scene of the angel/demon battle. He bursts upon a vista out of – well – out of Hell. The angels are gone – fled or dead, Sam doesn't know, although he does note the gigantic imprint of a pair of outspread wings tattooed upon the scarred and steaming ground. He does not know the meaning of this but senses that it's not a good sign.

Everywhere he looks, the detritus of no-holds-barred conflict is evident. The bodies of demons, hellhounds, and even lower, more bestial beings litter the landscape as far as Sam can see, their stinking blood clotting in pools, their limbs twisted into pretzels of agony. The area is deserted except for the bodies.

Alastair's plundered memories still reverberate horribly behind Sam's eyes as he surveys the destruction. He feels as if his soul will never be clean nor his mind completely sane again unless he can purge them somehow. The very existence of this place affronts everything he believes in, everything he and Dean have fought to protect. And although Sam knows that as powerful as he is, he cannot destroy Hell, he figures he can fuck it up plenty.

Cloning Alastair's energy, Sam sends out a psychic summons to every demon within "earshot", bidding them to join their master now. Soon the cavernous space is filled with the surviving demons under Alastair's dominion. Sam, his presence now cloaked, surveys the scene from a bare spar of rock that juts up from the bubbling surface. The rank, red tinged-air vibrates with malice. As Sam eyes the demon host he feels his anger heighten, feels the power it feeds thrum beneath his skin like a gigantic heartbeat.

The demons, for their part, begin to mill about, surveying the carnage uneasily, growling and muttering among themselves. They cannot see the battered Alastair, cloaked as he is by Sam's will, until the form of their bloody, drooling master suddenly materializes, gripped in the outstretched hand of Sam Winchester. A howl of wonderment and outrage echoes through the space as the demons look upon their defeated master.

As Sam's gaze sweeps over the multitude of hellish life below him, he wishes he could roll all of Hell into a big ball and simply drop kick it into the next universe. But that's off the table – for now at least – so he settles for the next best thing.

Still grasping the limp form of Alastair in one fist, he thrusts his other arm out, focusing his intent. Although there is no visible manifestation of Sam's power, its effect is both tangible and immediate. The mass of demons who but a moment before were in possession of both sense and will, immediately let loose with a chorus of shrieks as their essences are wrenched from their bodies to form billowing clouds of noxious black smoke. The bodies themselves begin to shrivel and smoke, curdling into twisted, desiccated husks. The smoke continues to foment in angry clouds and ragged tendrils as if desperately seeking egress from the cavern – which in fact is the case. But there is nowhere to go, and no hope of escape from the wrath of Sam. When finally he has absorbed into himself all the green-glowing life energy from the blasted demons and their bodies lie empty and unmoving at his feet, Sam turns his focus to the swarming mass of demon "souls" writhing madly to escape. With one great concentrated blast of psychical energy that turns his flashing eyes the color of lead, he smites the black cloud of demonsouls - an annihilation accompanied by an ululation of indescribable agony.

The sound of their obliteration washes over Sam like a blessing. The vista of hell wavers in his red-tinted vision and he shivers from the force of the new power flowing through him. Sam drops the body of Alastair unceremoniously to the ground and flings his arms wide. Electric blue bolts of energy shoot forth from both hands without direction or order. No thought propels them, for Sam has, finally, surrendered control of his power to serve his rage. Wherever a bolt strikes destruction is instantaneous and total. Great crags of rock drop from the roof; the ground, already a-bubble, ruptures further, spewing long streams of boiling rock and steam. Great cracks appear in the rocky walls and floor – out of which pour rivers of fire. A pervasive bass rumble seems to come from everywhere at once – ground and air. It builds and builds until it is a brain-shattering vibration subsuming everything.

Suddenly, in the center of what used to be a great cavern of Hell, an indentation appears in the ground. The vibrations continue as it widens and deepens from an indentation to a hole, to a bottomless pit, and still it continues to widen and deepen. With a gesture, Sam retrieves the still animate Alastair. Dragging him by his leg, Sam propels himself back toward the cave where he first entered the Hell Gate. He never turns back to observe the final result of his rampage.

As Sam disappears, the true consequence of his unbridled power becomes apparent. The gigantic hole in the center of the vast chamber ceases to widen – now its edges seem to crumble; the hole itself begins to collapse whirling and swirling like a waterspout made of earth and molten rock. Caught up in the huge suction, the entire cavern begins to shiver and crumble, falling inexorably toward the center of this multidimensional wormhole which continues to drop and drop. This entire section of the Not-place called Hell will, in another few moments, simply cease to be.

As Sam, dragging the inert form of Alastair, propels himself from the mouth of the Hell Gate, he begins to intone the arcane primordial syllables of the sealing incantation. No blood sacrifice is required to reclose the gate, only sufficient psychical power such as few living beings have or will ever possess. With a final, thunderous whump! the sulfurous pit that was a Hell Gate seals itself up like a scabbed-over cut. Within seconds the smoking cap of volcanic rock has fused and melded to a diamond-like hardness. Sam pauses, staring down at the bloody heap that is Alastair. He jolts the arch-demon back to consciousness, effortlessly levitating him to his feet to hang like wet laundry in the steaming air of the tunnel.

"I know you're conscious. Open your eyes."

Alastair's black eyes roll in their sockets for a moment before unwillingly coming to rest on Sam's face. The eyes are dull, flat, void of expression. Strangely, Sam's own eyes reflect a similar absence, but this is because he is now unwilling to allow Alastair access even to his anger and hatred. Thus, he exerts the severest command over himself as he considers his next actions. He feels an overwhelming need to see and be with Dean. Yet the destruction of Alastair must be accomplished although he is inclined to take his time about it. He spends a few moments considering and discarding options. He thinks that perhaps for a creature like Alastair, the worst eventuality would not be death, but an eternal torture bound within his own impotent being. On the instant he hits upon a means of accomplishing this living death while leaving his future options open. Sam's eyes, calm and pitiless, bore into Alastair's

"Hellspawn piece of shit, I've no time now to deal with you as you deserve, but know this: _I will never let you die_. You _think_ you know Hell. You have _never been_ to Hell."

Sam focuses his will like a laser on the rock wall before him, simultaneously forcing Alastair back into that wall. For a moment Alastair hangs, pinioned. Then, with agonizing slowness, the demon's body begins to sink into the stone itself as, cell by cell his demon flesh melds with the stone, the stone in turn fusing with his substance on a cellular level. The pain of this fusion is evidenced by the ungodly shrieks that issue from Alastair's still-fleshly lips. The screams grow in volume and intensity, bouncing back from the scabrous cave walls in a cascade of soul-rending noise. The rigid body of Alastair is now flush with the surface of the rock like some gruesome animated fresco and still it continues to be absorbed into the stone. Even muffled as they now are, his wretched screams reflect Alastair's unspeakable agony. Sam watches this process with silent equanimity. Finally, Alastair's form is no longer visible at all. It has been driven deep into the matter composing the mountain that is now his tomb. Still, his screams echo in Sam's ears, although so deeply is Alastair buried that they would be inaudible to anyone else. A small, faint smile curves Sam's upper lip as he considers the eons of suffering ahead for the arch-demon, who will remain, alive and entrapped forever, or until Sam can devise some other, more awful fate for him.

"I know you can hear me, hellspawn. Enjoy eternity."

The incoming tide swirls around Sam's feet, rising quickly. Soon it will flood the hidden chamber, as it has done twice a day for 10,000 years. Sam transports himself back to the beach and makes his way to the Impala, still hidden in its grove of scrub pine.

Although nothing was discussed between them, Sam knows somehow that the angel – Castiel – has taken Dean back to Pontiac where his body lies buried. Perhaps Dean's soul has already been reunited with his meatsuit, he thinks, and Dean will be wondering where Sam is.

Suddenly, Sam is filled with a strange, heady mixture of panic, anticipation and dread. It seems like a lifetime ago that he watched his brother die. It feels like he has dragged around a huge frozen boulder of grief in his heart his whole life. But there is more. He knows that he is not the Sam Dean left behind. He doesn't really know what he is.

Perhaps just because he _is_ Sam, he worries more about Dean's wellbeing. How will Hell have changed his brother? And how can Sam help him? How much should he share with Dean about his new and downright scary power? Sam decides to seek out Castiel first, before reuniting with Dean. There is too much that he doesn't know, and too much that he knows he must keep from Dean, at least for now.

Sam drives back to the motel, grabs his stuff and books. The drive back to Pontiac will give him some time to sort through all this.


	8. Chapter 8 Invictus

Don't Dream It's Over – Chapter 8 - Invictus

As he powers the Impala across the empty miles of blacktop, a thousand conflicting images and thoughts flicker through Sam Winchester's mind. He wishes he could turn some of them off – at least tune them down. Mostly he thinks of Dean. But those thoughts, his joy and anticipation at being reunited with his brother are intermingled with flashes of Dean's broken, bloody flesh and ravaged face as he hangs on a rack of bone.

No – that's all over. Dean is _alive_. _Free_.

Except Sam knows that the memories of Hell will never be erased. They are part of Dean, and in a small way they are a part of him too now. Sam is glad that they are. It is the closest he can come to sharing his brother's pain. At least, Sam thinks, his knowledge will help when Dean begins to deal with what happened to him, as he eventually must. Dean will never be the person he was -no one could suffer what he has and not be irrevocably changed. The nature of those changes will be revealed over time.

But Dean will never face anything alone ever again.

It is not so much a decision as a covenant that Sam makes with himself as he barrels neck-or-nothing down the dusty interstate. Dean sacrificed so much for the sake of his family. He did so willingly out of an innate sense of duty and honor, but mostly out of love. Sam knows nothing he can do will restore what Dean has lost - mother, father, faith, home, dreams – but there is one thing Sam _can_ do. He can make sure Dean is never hurt again. With his powers, he will be able to shield his brother from all things evil -identify every threat and take it out before it even gets close. He needs to do this for himself as much as for Dean, because the moment he looked into Dean's unconscious face as Castiel cradled him down in the pit he knew that he could not bear to lose Dean again. He wouldn't survive it. He wouldn't want to.

Sam understands this will present some problems - not the least of which is Dean himself. His brother's deep distrust and abhorrence of things supernatural - (hell – he wouldn't even admit to believing in God, or angels, or the Devil or any of the "truths" that believers accept on faith) will make it difficult for him to accept Sam's new abilities. Or to put it more bluntly, Sam knows that one glimpse of him with his eyes gone all glowy and Dean will freak right the fuck OUT.

No. As much as it grates on him to lie to Dean or hide things from him, Sam decides that it's necessary for the short term, at least until Dean's had some time to deal with his own baggage. Sam's control of his abilities makes him confident that he can protect Dean in all situations without his even being aware of it. Nothing – _nothing _will ever hurt his brother again, and no force this side of Heaven will ever separate them.

A painful lump is lodged about heart-level in his chest. He will check back into the motel in Pontiac where he had briefly stayed before heading out on the road and wait for Dean to find him. This is the best way, he thinks, to deflect any possible suspicion of his being involved in Dean's rescue.

Ω Ω Ω

The hot shower felt good. Sam felt as if he'd washed off 10,000 miles of filth and dust. His body felt like a sack of lead and all he wanted was a beer and his bed. Well, he was pretty hungry too - ravenous in fact, and he'd ordered a pizza.

A sharp rap at the door – dinner. Sam, jeans-clad and barefoot, wet hair slicked back, padded over to the door, opened it…

… and found himself staring into a pair of green eyes he'd once feared he'd never see again. Standing beside Dean in the doorway, Bobby glanced from one brother to the other, hardly daring to breathe. Sam just stood there transfixed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with the sudden rush of a hundred cascading emotions.

"Hey Sammy."

Dean's face seemed lit from within, his lip curled faintly upward in that well-remembered smile. For all his planning, Sam could not have predicted the effect that seeing his brother walking, breathing, _speaking_ would have on him. For a moment his mind went blank; he couldn't remember the script he had so carefully concocted to account for his time and whereabouts for the last four months. Unconsciously, his mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. "Move, idiot", some inner voice finally said.

Sam grabbed his hunting knife from the side table, lunging at Dean just as he stepped through the doorway. Bobby shouted, grabbing Sam's arm and thrusting him forcefully back against the wall.

"_Who are you?" _Sam yelled.

"Sam! Sam it's him!" Bobby shouted.

"No!" Sam lunged forward again, and again Bobby grabbed him and flung him backwards, pinioning him with an arm around his neck.

"Sam! I've been all through this. It's him. It's really him!"

Sam stopped struggling, feigning capitulation, and straightened, staring dumbstruck at his brother across the few feet of space that separated them. He gasped raggedly, straining to draw breath into his lungs.

"Dean?" Sam couldn't tear his eyes from his brother's face.

"I know. I look fantastic, huh?"

Almost without volition, Sam closed the distance between them in two strides, pulling Dean to him in a frantic bear hug and burying his face in his brother's shoulder. His eyes misted as he drank in his brother's scent, so long absent. Sam was holding on so tightly he knew Dean could barely breathe; still, he couldn't seem to will his arms to let go. For his part, Dean was holding on to Sam so hard he could feel Sam's heart thudding against his own chest, feel the corded muscles in his brother's back.

Seconds passed, punctuated by only by the sound of hitching breath. With a final squeeze of his brother's shoulder Sam stepped back, a dazed smile on his face.

"God, Dean – how? How'd you get out?"

Dean smiled wryly. "Funny you should put it quite that way, bro, 'cause apparently, the Man Upstairs sent some angelic posse to _break _me out. One of them, Castiel is his name, is like, assigned to me or something."

Sam's smile was tinged with gentle skepticism. "Angels? Dean, are you telling me you have an actual guardian angel?"

"No, no it's not like that exactly."

"Well, what is it like, exactly?"

"Hey, c'mon, man. I've been out of the loop for four months – as in _dead,_ remember? My brain's still trying to wrap itself around the fact that it's not screaming anymore."

Sam looked contrite. "Shit, Dean – man, I'm sorry. You're right. That shit can wait."

"It's okay Sammy. It's kinda - messin' with my head too. It's-"

"Hey, let's just let it go for tonight, 'kay? I just – how 'bout we go somewhere and get something to eat, yeah? Right now! I'm taking you both out for the best steak dinner of your lives."

"Yeah, good luck with that – I mean, this _is_ Iowa, right? But -well, I sure could use a beer – or twelve," Dean conceded.

Bobby stepped up to face them both, clapping a calloused paw on each of their shoulders. "Well, I'm just glad both you boys are okay, but I'll be heading back now; you got plenty to talk about and besides, I didn't bring muh tux with me this trip."

Sam grasped Bobby by the elbow as he turned to leave. "Bobby, forget it, you're not going anywhere. You're family; you've been with us through the worst - do you think we would let you skip the good parts? Hell, there aren't all that many that we can afford to let them pass unheralded."

Dean's eyes rolled. "Unheralded? Dude, who are you – Anderson Cooper?"

Ω Ω Ω

It is a warm late-September evening. A black, '67 Impala sits parked at the edge of an Iowa cornfield. The smell of ripe corn hangs heavy in the still air and cricket song rises and falls like the susurrus of the ocean. Sam and Dean Winchester are sitting side by side on the hood, beers in hand, staring up at a sky so full of stars it makes them dizzy.

They haven't spoken for many minutes and every so often Sam steals a sideways glance at his brother. There is so much he wants to say, so much he has to tell that he doesn't know where to even begin. Beyond describing his rescue by Castiel, as it was told to him by Castiel, Dean hasn't said much; nothing at all about Hell or his time there. He seems content just to be with Sam again, and in the 24 hours since they reunited in Sam's motel room they have spent hardly a moment apart.

Every so often though, they cast sidelong assessing glances at each other. The Sam Dean sees seems much the same as he was before - cocky, focused, softhearted, incurably geeky, broody and emo. But Dean has caught glimpses of a different Sam too – more confident, stronger, and somehow deeper, more self-contained and reserved. But Dean quickly concludes that this perspective may be more a result of his own recent experiences than any actual change in Sam. The thought makes him cringe. He is stung with guilt whenever he allows himself to think of what life must have been like for Sam all those months. Thinking of his brother alone, unprotected, eaten up with grief and guilt and surrounded by all the evil the world has to offer with no one at his back fills Dean with shame and a fierce conviction that he will never allow this to occur again. Now that he has seen – up close and very personal – the awful, pervasive power of evil to corrupt and destroy even the good and the innocent, he is afraid for Sam. Afraid that the strange abilities Sam began to manifest near the end of Dean's last year could leave him open to the forces of evil, could seduce and blind and trap him before he is even aware. Except now Big Brother is back - and that's _so _not going to happen.

After the disorienting red-spectrum colors of the pit, Dean finds the cool, star-shot blackness infinitely comforting and beautiful. Sam watches his brother watch the stars with the wide-eyed innocence of an 8-year old, and he smiles a little.

"What are you smiling at, Wonderboy?"

"Nothing. Really - nothing"

"Yeah, ok-aay. And I'd be buying that except your face is telling a different story."

"Hey, I'm just glad you're back, okay? I –"

Sam looks down at his giant hands; opens and closes them once, twice. He struggles to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. But when the words finally come they tumble out in a pained, ragged torrent.

"God, Dean_. It was all shit without you_, man. Every day was like – like walking around with this giant hole in the middle of me. It hurt so bad - some nights I went to sleep praying to just _not wake up_. And the worst, the _worst_ was knowing you weren't gone. That you were still there _somewhere_ and this awful shit was happening to you, but I could never ever reach you; I couldn't find you, couldn't help you… "

Sam doesn't know when he started crying, but his face is wet. Tears are spilling out of his eyes and running down his cheeks, over his lips, leaking into his mouth where his tongue tastes the salt. He makes no sound though, and that scares and moves Dean more than anything. "Sammy, I'm sorry…"

"After that night, for weeks, I couldn't stop thinking about it – couldn't stop seeing it in my head - hearing it in my dreams."

"Why didn't you go to Bobby, Sam? He's our family, he would have understood, helped you deal."

Sam turns to Dean, suddenly angry, his eyes red and wild. "Helped me deal? How do you deal with something like that, Dean? Seeing the most important person in your world torn apart in front of you while you stand there and let it happen? How do you live with that? Oh wait – _you _didn't have to, cause _you _didn't let it happen. You saved me! I should have stopped it. I should have found a way to save you before -"

Sam breaks off raggedly, sucks in air. He had almost given everything away, almost said, "before they hung you in that room—"

Dean turns enough to grab Sam by the shoulder and pull him, unresisting, into his side.

"Sam – Sammy, it's okay. Everything's okay now. I'm here. I'm here, I'm okay, and I'm not going anywhere," follows Dean's rough whisper, fingers unconsciously brushing Sam's long hair back from his face.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry I left you alone. I was supposed to take care of you, and I didn't. I didn't – but it's gonna be okay – because I'm here, and I'm gonna always have your back from now on. I promised Dad, and I promised you, most of all I promised _myself_ I would do that - never let anything hurt you. I know I haven't always done that good a job of it, but I promise – _I promise you, _Sam, whatever comes, whatever happens, I'll be here, always.

Sam doesn't speak, but Dean can feel the tension in his brother's body ease, the hitching breath even out. The thought comes, unbidden, that here is yet another change – in both of them, it seems. Before his vacation in Hell they were rarely overtly emotional toward each other. For Dean, manly silence was the order of the day, and he had almost thirty years of compressed, repressed feelings to show for it. Now it seemed his time in Hell had broken down his carefully maintained walls. Or perhaps he now understood that there could be no walls between Sam and himself. Didn't need them; didn't want them.

Sam straightens away from his brother and smiles into those astonishing green eyes. His heart still aches, but with love instead of despair. He feels the energy of his power rippling through every cell of his body. He feels as if he is made of light. He knows that the light is Dean.

Hard on the heels of this realization comes another: his plan to use his power to protect Dean will not work – will, in fact, destroy his brother. Sam understands, finally, that Dean's purpose _is_ to protect Sam.

Just not in the way Dean believes. Not by any action of his, but by his very presence. Everything he has just experienced has taught Sam that he will simply not live long without his brother. Or if he does, eventually, he won't _be_ Sam anymore. Dean is the Guardian of Sam's soul. And if Sam becomes Dean's protector he will rob his brother of his manhood and his soul more profoundly than 1,000 years in Hell could and destroy the one relationship that will keep him (somewhat) human.

It's a hard choice that in the end is really no choice. Dean is strong – stronger than the monsters, stronger than demons, stronger even than Hell itself. Even in Hell, his strength was sustained by his love for Sam. Sam knows now that he can never reveal his powers to Dean – that he must not even manifest them. Much as the idea of allowing his brother to put himself in harm's way, to continue hunting monsters and facing down death terrifies Sam, he knows he must. He vows then and there to bury his powers deep in his subconscious, to never use them again, even when he is alone. He will be the Sam Dean needs him to be; the Sam he needs to be. They will be as they were – fighting evil with hunters' weapons, looking out for each other, gambling with death, winning some, losing some…

Ω Ω Ω

The wide open sky is lightening in the East when the brothers haul themselves back into the Impala. They drive toward the horizon, each silent with his thoughts. But there is no tension now, no pent-up sadness or fear or guilt. They are driving past field after field of swaying grain, pale gold beneath the rising sun.

Sam turns to Dean with a grin. "Hey Dean, doesn't this remind you of the scene in 'Field of Dreams?' The first time Kevin Costner sees Shoeless Joe?"

"Hey, yeah, it does. What a great movie. Sometimes a comet flies across the heavens and Hollywood actually makes a movie that doesn't suck. That miracle in itself makes you almost believe something like that could happen, y'know? I mean, why not? If the world can hold wendigos and vampires and ghouls and every other goddamned awful thing, why not something beautiful like an immortal baseball team dropping in every now and then?"

"It would be sweet," Sam murmurs. They drive on for awhile in comfortable silence, Sam looking out the passenger window at the bucolic scenery.

"Hey Dean, pull over!"

"-What?"

"Just pull over here. I just saw something weird."

Dean slows the car to a stop, an impatient frown forming between his drawn brows.

"Sam, what 'weird' could you possibly find out here in the middle of Amber Waves of Grain-land? Wait – weird weird, or our kind of weird?"

"I dunno – maybe both; maybe neither. I'm gonna take a look."

"Hold up, we'll both take a look."

When he exits the car, Sam is already striding back down the dusty road, heading toward what looks to be an old barn at the side of a wheat field. Even from here, Dean can see what caught his brother's attention. The barn is all ramshackle grayed wood; one of its doors is missing and sunlight pours through the half- caved in roof. But above the sagging doors stark red lines form a strange symbol, similar to ones Dean has seen on barns in Pennsylvania and other rural places. He is unfamiliar with this particular mark though, and he follows Sam, his curiosity piqued.

When he reaches the barn, Sam has already gone inside. He spends some minutes gazing up at the cryptic symbol, searching his memory for a reference point. But the sign is new to him, although it bears elements common to several incredibly ancient Eygptian marks having to do with immortality and the afterlife. The mark itself is a vibrant, electric blue that seems to scintillate in the morning sun as though it were just painted and still wet. The strange thing is, unlike so many arcane symbols Dean has seen, it gives off no dark, negative vibe - quite the opposite, in fact. As Dean continues to gaze at the symbol, he feels a serene calm wash over him. The feeling is so unexpected, so alien to him that he is momentarily transfixed until the sound of his own name brings him back to himself.

"Dean! Dean, c,mere!"

Sam sounds excited, but not panicky or alarmed. Dean joins him in the cool stillness of the barn. Nothing strange here. The interior is empty save for a few moldy bales of hay and the remains of what look to be horse stalls, now just rotting slats of wood, mostly fallen down. Little motes of dust drift down around Sam like glinting gems on the stream of sunlight slanting through the riven roof.

"What the hell, Sam? Where's the weird"? Except for that symbol over the door – what do you make of that, by the way? – this is just an old barn, dude. If you're that into them, we'll take the "Old Barns of America" tour next vacation.."

"Yeah, okay, stop. I thought it might be something."

"Huh. Obviously I've left you alone way to long, bro. You're jonesing for a hunt."

"Yeah, must be…"

"Can we go now? "

"Yeah, sure. I just wanna sketch that symbol though. Might as well add it to the collection".

"Sure, okay. Let's just get the show on the road; I'd like to make it back to civilization while I'm still young."

Dean has already turned to walk out when Sam says "Wait! Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Shut up a minute."

Sam grabs Dean by the arm, face scrunched up in concentration. For a moment there is silence, and Dean's patience, never long, has been stretched to its limit.

"Shit, Sam –"

Then he hears it. A hollow "pop" followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of running feet and what sounds like - _cheering._

Both brothers tear out of the barn and look toward the field; then stop short, eyes a-goggle at the scene before them.

The wheat field is gone. In its place a perfect baseball field now sits, reddish-brown hard-packed earth marked with glowing white baselines; white wooden benches along each opposite sideline and a set of bleachers across from an old-fashioned wooden scoreboard. The bleachers are empty, but the dugouts on each side of the field are filled with young men in baseball uniforms - white with blue stripes on one side, sky-blue on the other. Even from where he stands, jaw agape, Dean can hear the murmur of their chatter, interspersed with laughter.

"What the – no way! Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Sam stands beside him, just as wide-eyed. "Holy shit."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. What the hell, Sam? We're hallucinating, right? I mean, c'mon!"

"I dunno, Dean."

"Well, this can't be real! Something – _supernatural_ going on here. Can't be good."

Sam's eyes, as he turns to his brother, are curiously gentle. "Why not?"

"What?"

"Why can't it be good?"

"What? Because nothing supernatural is _ever_ good, Sam! Not in our experience!"

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean that in this whole big universe there can't be something - some _supernatural_ something - that's benevolent."

"Benevolent? Okay, Professor. You take your "benevolent" while I just run back to the car and get my gun. Then we'll go take a look-see."

"Dean, I don't think you're gonna need your gun. It's just baseball. There are no guns in baseball."

"Wrong movie reference, Ebert. Just wait here."

Dean races back to the Impala, throws open the trunk and pulls out his .45. In afterthought he pulls out a bag of salt. Pocketing the salt he races back to the barn, but Sam is gone. Dean swears bluely as he looks toward the field and sees his brother now standing in the center of a cluster of players.

As he runs toward Sam, Dean's mind automatically processes the scene before him. A baseball game is definitely in progress. There are runners on first and third base. A sandy-haired man dressed in blue stands at the plate, bat poised to swing. On the pitcher's mound, a white-uniformed figure is on his wind-up. He releases the ball and the batter swings. There is a resounding crack! and the ball soars up, up and out across the field straight towards Dean. Muscle memories dormant for 15 years suddenly spring to life, galvanizing Dean into action before he is even aware he is moving. Suddenly, he is running, running, head up and eye on the ball as it hits its apogee and begins its descent to earth. Dean marks its trajectory; still running, he reaches up. The ball drops into his outstretched hand and he continues to run toward the infield, fires the ball toward home plate, where it is caught before the runner at third can reach home. Tagged. The player at home fires the ball back to third, where the third baseman catches it neatly, tagging out the runner before he makes the base. Double play.

The white-striped team's dugout empties as players run to Dean. He finds himself suddenly surrounded by a bunch of sweaty, laughing men pounding his shoulders, slapping him on the back, cheering him by name. From the corner of his eye he can see Sam standing a little ways off smiling full-on, his face lit like a hundred-watt bulb. The uniform should look strange on his giant body, but it doesn't. Dean glances down at himself, surprised to note that he is now similarly dressed. What the _hell._

The team settles down and the players straggle back to their dugouts. Dean walks slowly over to Sam, his eyes full of questions.

"Sammy –"

"Don't ask me, cause I got nothing."

"This is crazy. This shit – it doesn't happen. This is the movies, man. This isn't real."

"Maybe. Guess not – but – it's here. We're here – so it is happening, isn't it?"

I don't get it, man. How can you be so calm about this?"

Sam stepped up close to his brother, a hand on Dean's arm. He looked into Dean's eyes – those bottomless eyes in which he could still see so much pain, fear and grief. He had wanted more than anything to see something else there – hope, peace, forgiveness.

"Dean, listen to me. Just listen. You're right. Most of the time all this supernatural stuff is evil. And yeah, there's evil everywhere. But just – not here. Not today. Trust me. I can _feel_ it. What this is, it's a gift – for us. Maybe your angel buddies are doing it, I don't know. All I know is, this is something good. Please trust me on this. Please."

Dean looked at his brother's earnest face, a rejection of Sam's plea on his lips. But something in Sam's eyes stopped him. A certainty, a conviction of truth that Dean couldn't gainsay. Suddenly, something that had been coiled inside of Dean since his return topside seemed to relax and dissolve. The ball of fear and guilt that at times threatened to strangle him unclenched and flowed out like water from a smashed bucket.

"Okay. Okay, Sammy. I – I do trust you."

"Hey Dean! Dean, you're up!" Dean flashed Sam a brilliant smile, then turned and walked toward the plate. A slender, dark-haired young man ran up to him and handed him a beautiful bat made of white ash. Around its base the name "Winchester" was carved in small block letters.

"Here, you can use mine, Dean."

Dean took the bat, glancing up at the man with a smile of thanks. _And met the beautiful dark green eyes of twenty-seven year old John Winchester. _

"DAD!"

John gazed at his son with loving eyes. "It's so good to see you, boy. You and Sam. Good to see you both. We'll have lots of time to talk later. Right now, we've got a game to win."

Dean stands motionless in the middle of a wheatfield in central Iowa. Above him, the warm sun blesses the perfect diamond of the ballfield, the crowd of chattering players, and the folks who have found their way to the bleachers. He looks towards them, scanning the faces, and is somehow unsurprised to see among them his mother in a pale yellow sundress and her parents, Deanna and Samuel. They are smiling and waving. Slowly, Dean does a complete 360 of the field. He is making a memory. The last thing his eyes alight upon before he takes his first swing is his brother, warm eyes radiating love and pride, mouth curved up in a small, secret smile.

Ω ∞ Ω


End file.
